


Friday Mornings

by HanBan



Category: Original Work
Genre: Complete, F/F, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Short Story, updates every Friday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-10-23 09:20:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17680724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HanBan/pseuds/HanBan
Summary: Liv and Esme see each other every Friday morning at 8 o'clock, waiting for their classroom doors to open. One day, they finally start talking - about nothing in particular and generally everything - and quickly become friends. As their friendship blossoms and the early Friday mornings become more bearable, Liv begins to wonder if Esme looks forward to their little meetups as much as she does. And if that hickup in her chest when Esme greets her with a sleepy smile and fresh coffee might be requited.





	1. 01

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone!  
> So this is an original short story I've been working on for the past few months and that I really like. Sadly, it's too short to publish it as an actual book so for now it'll find its home on here. Hope you enjoy reading it - feedback is always welcome <3

Another Friday morning.   
Another day starting with a dreadful 8:30 class, leaving me and my vanilla latte with extra espresso shot waiting for the classroom doors to open since 8 o'clock. My back is firmly pressed against the wall behind me, the to-go-cup resting on my legs which in turn rest on the dirty yellow carpet that forms the ground of my university's second floor.   
Yellow carpet in a well-walked building. Honestly, who came up with that genius idea?  
I sigh at the repetition of this washed out scene, my head falling against the fall as I close my eyes and focus on the caffeinated sweetness making its way past my lips.   
“Mind if I sit?”   
My eyes fly open and for a second I'm scared I might either choke on my latte or – even worse – spit it right onto my unexpected companion. I take the second, in which my brain decides to just go with the easier option of swallowing the drink, to look up at the person who so suddenly shook up my dull Friday morning routine – and almost choke again when I find bright blue eyes and a smile way too cheery for this early hour looking back at me.   
“Ehm...no...yeah. I mean, sure, sit.”  
The girl raises an eyebrow – fine black hairs on dark skin, which contrasts with her white Hijab – at my probably extremely impressive stuttering, but still follows my suggestion and takes place next to me on the floor, her colourful backpack in between us as she crosses her legs in a copy of my own position.  
I half expect her to find some sort of distraction – a book, a phone, an imaginary friend to her other side – the moment she seems comfortable, but instead she turns towards me with those bright eyes and that terribly contagious smile and says: “I've seen you around before, haven't I?”  
Apparently my brain takes this as the cue to try that drinking thing again, because instead of answering I lift my cup and almost burn my tongue in the process. Which, I guess, is a step up from almost choking. But she seems to take my reaction as a confirmation and simply continues: “But you're not in Mr. Smith's class, are you?”  
Seeing as I have no idea who Mr. Smith is, I assume it's save enough for me to shake my head. Dammit, can I please just get it together? A really cure girl is talking to me and has apparently even noticed me before and acting like an incapable idiot will definitely not increase my chances of that ever happening again. So I swallow the last of my hot latte and finally manage to say: “No, I'm in Mrs. Baker's class.”   
I point at the classroom I'll be entering soon and add: “Room 206, women's poetry.”  
If possible, her eyes light up even more and I can't help but grin at seemingly having said something right.   
“That sounds super interesting! I've only got another English History lecture in 207 – wanna switch?”  
A giggle makes its way out of my mouth and though I did not approve of the sound before I made it, she seems to enjoy it so I decide to let my vocal chords have this one.   
“Sorry, not for a million dollars will I ever take English History again – you have no idea how glad I was when that was finally over.”  
“Oh, I can imagine. Lucky you!”  
And there it is: the moment our eyes actually meet and her smiles makes my lips curl upwards in response. No, brain, you're just imagining the lack of oxygen, our breathing is fine, keep going.  
“Wait, so if you're done with History, which semester are you in?”  
“4th – you?”  
“I'm in my 3rd, which means only one more History lecture to get through.”   
Somehow she manages to look grumpy and happy at the same time, her expression a mocking of her own annoyance in a way that doesn't take itself too serious. It might just be the prettiest thing I have ever seen.   
And then it's gone.   
Because, apparently, someone called her name – which, of course, I didn't catch with my thoughts all the way over in dream land – and she turns towards a guy in a jumper matching the carpet, who is standing in front of 207, holding the door open for the people making their way out of the room.   
“Oh, I guess I gotta go. See you around?”  
She hesitates before picking up her backpack, her body still kind of crouched down as she waits for me to confirm her words. Then she gets up all the way and swings the bag over her shoulder. And that's when I blurt out: “I'm Liv, by the way!”  
I can feel some students at the table nearby look over at the weird girl who's shouting her name loudly across campus, but when she turns around to flash me another one of those way-too-cheery smiles, I immediately forget about the embarrassment that should be making its way from my mind to my heart to my sweaty hands right now.   
“I'm Esme. It was nice to meet you, Liv.”


	2. 02

Okay, so I might be a bit early on this particular Friday morning.   
And maybe I also considered bringing two to-go-cups instead of one until I realised that I have no idea what kind of coffee Esme like, if any at all.   
Esme.  
Esme, who isn't sitting next to me at 8 o'clock sharp, which makes my hands turn sweaty and my white chocolate mocha taste bitter – which is absolutely impossible – and the music blasting within my mind grow so loud that I literally have to turn down the volume on my phone. And yes, I know she wasn't here at exactly 8 o'clock last time. And I also know that she might not even sit next to me again, seeing as last week was the only time she ever did. But still. She might.  
“Liv.”  
I really hope my scream wasn't as loud as I imagine it to be – though the headphones probably even muffled it for me and Esme's look of pure horror is telling me that my shock shocked her even more.   
“Oh no, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to startle you!”  
She immediately kneels down next to me and pulls out a pack of tissues from her backpack, attempting to keep my mocha from actually sinking into the carpet's texture here it is currently creating a wonderful new spot to go with this quilt of food, drink and general dirt.   
“I am so sorry!”   
Even now, she still seems to be smiling – a smile paired/poised with a frown, sure, but still a smile hanging in the corner of her mouth like she's unable to let is slip, even when the rest of her face doesn't match the joyful expression.  
“What? Oh, no, I'm sorry. I was completely lost in...in...music.”  
I pull out my headphones as proof and as I realise she isn't looking at me because she is too busy cleaning the dirty floor, I reach out to stop her unnecessary attempt.   
My fingers find hers and though I really, really don't want to, they pull away again with the soaked tissue she was holding a second ago.  
“Come on, I don't think anyone will even notice the difference. Besides, I kinda like this cooperative masterpiece of garbage – it's nice to finally add something to it, isn't it?”  
Her giggle make her eyes squint up and creates a number of small wrinkles on her nose that I can't help but stare at.   
I made that happen. My stupid joke made those fine lines appear on her face. How surreal is that?  
“I'm still sorry about your coffee though,” she says, as she finally sits up straight and leans her back against the wall right next to me.  
“Don't be,” I answer, not sure whether continuing to stare at her or turning away or pretending to watch the passing students would be the hardest thing to do.  
“Honestly, it didn't taste as good as I needed it to.“  
I settle on a combination, turning my head in an angle that makes it look like I'm watching the other students but still allows her to appear in the corner of my eyes.  
“Why did you need it to taste good? Rough week?”  
Wow, my attempt not to stare at her lasted a whole four seconds.  
And I realise I should have tried harder when my gaze meets hers because, damn, she looks right through me with that expression as if she had just uncovered an extremely rare truth and it just so happens to be within my life story.  
How does she do that?  
We've only met once before. How does she already see my soul, or whatever it is she seems to be looking at as she waits for me to reveal my troublesome week to her?


	3. 03

“You look tired.”  
“Thanks.”  
Even I can hear that the joking undertone isn't as strong as I had intended it to be so I quickly add: “I AM tired.”  
Esme pads the floor next to her for me to sit down and as I do so she asks: “Didn't sleep well?”  
I pull my legs closer, resting the coffee cup on top of my knees after taking a long sip.  
“Nop.”  
“How come?”  
“Someone in the building opposite mine left their lights on all night long.”   
I sigh. The sleep I have been deprived of is catching up with me now.  
“And that's why you couldn't sleep?”   
I watch as little wrinkles appear around Esme's as when she starts laughing and – tired or not – I can't help but join in.  
“I'm a sensitive sleeper, all right?!” I answer in mocking defence.  
“Well,” she says, still giggling, “I'm in no position to judge. I'm exactly the same. Just on the opposite end, I guess. I always leave on my fairy lights at night.”  
I put on a shocked expression and mouth “No way” before asking: “How come?”  
Esme rolls her eyes, giving me an opportunity to take another sip of my coffee.   
“Ugh, my brothers! They used to tell me these terrifying stories when I was little, about demons and witches and all those things. Of course, by now I know that none of that will actually come get me at night, but I guess after all those years I've just gotten used to the lights. Can't sleep without them.”  
I nod in understanding and lift my cup again when I feel her turn towards me and ask: “How come you can't sleep with the lights on then?”  
I put down my cup and instead focus on the wall opposite of us.   
“In my family, when someone leaves on the lights over night, it means that they are alone...”   
I bite my lip, thinking about my words for a moment, before I go on: “I don't know, maybe that person from last night was alone, too.”  
I turn to Esme and am surprised by her expression as she watches me – she seems somewhere between captivated and lost.  
“What?”  
Apparently, my voice snatches her out of her thoughts, because she tries to hide her previous expression behind an amused grin.  
“Nothing.”  
“Oh, come on!” I turn further around, now facing her directly.  
“What is it?”  
She sighs, her gaze shifting from me to the people passing by behind me.   
“It's just...it's really interesting, the way you think. It's as if those people, whom you don't even know, become a part of your own story the moment you notice them.”  
My brows furrow as I repeat her words in my head.  
“Yeah...I guess they kind of are,” I finally respond.  
“Is that a good or a bad thing, though?”  
“Definitely a good thing!”   
Esme grins, which in turn brings a smile to my lips as well, though I immediately hide it behind my coffee cup.  
“It means you're empathetic and pay attention. Which also means you're a good listener. And it's really nice to have someone like you to talk to.”  
It's only when she says it out loud that I realise how much I enjoy our conversation myself, how comfortable I am with talking to her about this stuff. So much so that all the nervousness about being close to a beautiful girl has completely vanished.  
Well, almost completely.


	4. 04

“This is all so stupid!”  
I sit down with a thud, drops of coffee escaping from my XXL cup.   
“What is?”  
Esme barely looks up from her sketchbook, she is so focused on whatever it is her pen is creating on the paper. I've seen this book before, seen her guard the orange bonding as if her deepest, darkest secrets are hidden behind that cover of daisies and sunflowers. Maybe they are. But right now I'm too pissed to care.   
“Everything! Uni, work...just everything! Why are we even here?”  
I've been in a mood ever since I woke up this morning.  
“Well, personally I am here to get my degree,” Esme says in a mocking tone – and with a grin that almost converts my resting frown. Almost.  
“Why?”  
“What do you mean 'why'?”   
Did her ever-perfect smile just falter?  
“Why do you want to get your degree? I mean, what's the point? In the end, we're all gonna die anyway.”  
Yes, definitely faltering.   
Or maybe I'm just projecting.  
“Wow, someone's very positive this morning. Did something happen?”  
“Nothing,” I grunt and sip my coffee.  
And it's true, nothing did happen. No sudden inspiration, no moment of enlightenment, no revelation as to what the heck I'm gonna do with my life after my last year and a half at uni is eventually over. I know it's stupid to worry about that stuff when I'm not even close to graduating – but still.  
“Nothing sure has an impact on you. Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?”  
And there it is again – that damn smile with those damn blue eyes.   
I take another sip of my coffee and try to find a way to explain my situation that doesn't sound too much like a quarter-life-crisis. Wait, does that mean I'll die at 88? That's a weird thought...  
“Liv?”  
Right.  
“It's just...god, this is gonna sound so stupid.”  
I roll my eyes and almost feel them rolling all the way into my head when Esme's hand lands on my knee. This girl!  
“I'm sure it won't.”  
Sigh. Coffee. Sigh. Talk.  
“Do you know what you'll do after uni?”  
Gone is the hand and I have to step myself from reaching out to get it back. Apparently this is a tough topic for Esme as well.  
“Because I sure as hell don't.”  
From the corner of my eye I see her relaxing a bit before concern replaces her previously anxious expression.  
“And you worry about that?”  
“Of course I do. I mean, I'm 22! I should at least have some idea of what I'll do with the rest of my life.”  
For a while, there is no response. As I sip my coffee, I wonder what Esme is thinking. Maybe it was stupid to tell her. Maybe she thinks I'm a loser for not having plans or dreams or goals. Maybe...  
“You could write.”  
She says it like she would say “You could get another coffee”, her voice calm and collected, the words almost casual.  
“What?”  
My voice is none of the above.  
“Write. You know, like an author.”  
An author. Me. Yeah right.  
“Sure.” I press a laugh over my still frowning lips, but she seems convinced of the idea.  
“I think you'd be a great author. That story you told me about the person who had their lights on at night – that could become a novel.”  
“That wasn't a story. That was barely an anecdote.”  
“Well, it could be a story. You obviously thought about the person and their life, so why not write down what you came up with?”  
“Because,” I start strongly, but immediately fall flat.   
“...because...well, because I'm not an author!”  
“Okay. Just think about, yeah?”  
I don't promise to do so and there's another moment of silence filling the inches between us as I work my way down to the bottom of my coffee cup.  
“And anyway,” Esme suddenly continues, as if her last words had just passed her lips a second ago, “you don't need to find one thing to do for the rest of your life.”  
My gaze shifts from the cup in my hand to her face and I am once again met with an honest smile.  
“I don't?”  
“No. Most people change jobs at least once and even within the same work field there is always a multitude of options and promotions. The chances that you'll actually work in the same position from graduation to retirement are pretty slim.”  
“Yeah...”   
I look at my cup again, turn it around and watch the last drops circle along the paper walls.  
“I guess you're right.”  
“Sure I am.”   
I don't even have to look up to hear the grin in her voice, to feel her eyes glistering with her words. I still do it.  
“So try not to worry about this too much, okay? Imaging the future as one blank block that you somehow need to completely fill right now makes it so much scarier than it has to be. Besides, you've got some time left to figure out what your next step will be after uni. And a lot of things happen by accident, so whatever you end up doing, you probably couldn't have planed it anyway.”  
How does she do it?  
My lips curl upwards despite the remaining doubt in the back of my mind and somehow, I believe every word she's saying.   
“Thanks.”  
Our eyes meet, but the relieve of escaping my horrible thought bubble keeps me calm.  
“You're welcome.”  
This next silence doesn't feel as heavy so we let it linger for a while, watching students pass by and the sunlight dance across the shadowed carpet.  
“So you think things happen by accident? Not fate?”  
Her giggle joins the light in a quick duet, her blue eyes squished close by her rising cheeks.  
“I don't know. Maybe some accidents are part of fate's plan. How about you?”  
Probably should have seen that one coming and prepared an answer...  
“I think we make our own fate,” I say after some hesitation, “by the choices we make.”  
“And who decides which choices we get to pick from in the first place?”  
Now it's my turn to giggle – because of course she asks something like that.   
“I really like the way you think, you know that?”  
For a second we just smile at each other.  
Ponder on each other's words, watch the light, and smile.   
Then she says: “Yeah, likewise,” and gets up to walk to her classroom.


	5. 05

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to write words so get used to loads of different forms of macccchiaatttttooooo and other hot drinks :D

“Good morning.”  
I try to copy Esme's way of smiling but only end up with my own smile gone lopsided instead. Still, good enough. Especially since she smiles back as soon as she sees me.  
“Good morning, Liv!”  
She sits down next to me, her pastel yellow Hijab brushing my shoulder on her way down. She looks gorgeous, as always. She has this way of being colourful in an understated way and somehow she always finds light tones that contrast with her dark skin perfectly. I wonder how long it takes her to combine an outfit like the one she's wearing today: long-sleeved dress, spotted with flowers in the same colour as her Hijab and black boots that give the sunny look a slight edge. Or is she just one of those girl that throws something on in the morning and immediately looks amazing? Probably.   
“Wow, had a long night?”  
At first I don't know what she means but then she points at the two cups in front of my crossed legs and I blush.  
“Ehm..no. Actually...” I hand her the left cup, trying to read her expression as she closes her delicate hands around the paper mug, but there is nothing in her face except for that typical smile.  
“Thanks, Liv, that's super sweet of you!”  
“Well, you know.” As soon as I'm sure that she has a good grip on the cup, I loosen my own and wrap my hands around the other cup still in front of me, my fingers intertwining into a circle.   
“I just thought it wasn't fair for me to be the only one with caffein.”  
“That's so sweet,” she repeats.  
“Yeah...Though I didn't know what you like. I hope you're okay with caramel macchiato.”   
“Perfect.”   
Her smile broadens impossible further and I watch her take the first sip before she grins up at me through dark eyelashes and licks the foam off her lip. For Christ's sake!  
“Hey, Esme?”  
“Yes, Liv?”  
“Can I ask you something?”  
The question has been waiting in the back of my mind since last week, since her uneasiness when I first mentioned the future. She turns towards me, our knees lightly touching as she leans forward to show me that I've got her attention.   
“What is it?”  
She rests her elbows on her crossed knees, the coffee held safely in the middle.  
“You don't have to answer if it's too personal or anything. I was just wandering because of what we talked about last week, you know, and I kind of wanted to know...”  
“Liv? Just ask.”  
She's still smiling but it doesn't quite reach her eyes anymore and – just like last Friday – she seems to distance herself.  
“What will you do after uni? Why are you here?”  
For a second, her smile actually falls off her lips completely and I immediately worry that I've crossed a line, that this is the moment in which our...whatever this is will end. But she doesn't move, doesn't even look away. Just sighs and finally answers: “I kinda figured you'd ask after last week. I guess I'm not the best at hiding things, am I?”  
I've never seen anyone try so desperately to look lighthearted.  
“My parents want me to get a degree. They think I need a 'real job' and that I cant get one if I don't go to uni first. So, until I can proof them wrong, I'm here.”  
“I'm sorry.”  
I don't know what else to say. My own parents are extremely supportive about all my decisions so I can't even imagine what it must feel like not to have that support.   
“Can I ask what you would like to do if it was your choice?”  
“You mean my dream job?”  
There is a sarcastic tone under her naturally sweet voice that gives me chills even though it isn't directed towards me.  
She sighs.  
“I honestly don't know. I mean, I'd love to do something artistic like design or something like that. But I never had the chance to figure it out, so it doesn't really matter.”  
“Of course it does!”  
Her look tells me that I am coming off a little too strong but I don't care. This is important. I can't let her believe that her dreams don't matter. So I continue: “Seriously, Esme, don't underestimate yourself. If there is something you want to do – or even just try to do at first – I'm sure that you can.”  
“You are?”  
“Absolutely. But not if you don't give yourself the benefit of the doubt. Even if whatever you want to do turns out to be wrong for you or boring, you need to allow yourself to try. And to possibly fail.”  
By now, her beautiful smile has completely turned into a frown that hangs somewhere between insecurity and bewilderment.  
“You're not that good with motivational speeches, are you?”  
I shrug as I notice the shimmer of amusement in her eyes.   
“I'm not trying to motivate you. I'm trying to tell you the truth. You can do everything you want to – be an artist, be a lawyer, be happy, be successful – but you have to actually want it first.”  
“And I need my parents to approve.”  
The shimmer burns down.  
“Do you?”  
I lean forward, locking eyes with her. I want her to take my question seriously, to think before she answers. And she does. She searches my eyes for an alternative to what she has been so sure about before. But she doesn't seem to find it. Maybe because my eyes were distracted.  
“Yes, I do.”  
We both sigh, disappointed in the hopelessness of it all.  
“Thanks anyway.” She gives me one last smile, sparkling eyes and all, before getting up and heading towards her class.   
“No problem,” I whisper and make my way to my class as well.


	6. 06

“Hey there!”  
“Hey! You're early today.”  
I take my seat next to her on the ground and hand her a cup of hot chocolate. She takes a sip and even before she has swallowed the drink, her eyes go wide in a surprised grin.  
“No coffee?”  
I open my mouth to answer but before I can utter so much as a single word, her hand flies to my forehead, which effectively keeps me from saying anything at all. It also keeps me from closing my mouth again but who cares?  
“Liv, are you okay?”  
I laugh at her exaggerated reaction but play along as her other hand grips my shoulder to lightly shake me as if I'd have to snap out of some sort of trance.  
“Liv, talk to me! What happened? Are you still with me? Please, Liv, don't leave me!”  
For a second, that last sentence nearly gets the better of me, but Esme's eyes are still wide open, her brows raised in extreme concern. She's still completely lost in her role. So I stifle my laugh as best as I can and answer with my most serious voice: “Liv as you know her doesn't exist anymore. She was taken over by the abnormal caffeine infusions in her bloodcycle. The only way to get her back now is with much-too-sweet, non-caffeinated beverages. She's trying. But she won't last long. The force of the caffeine is simply too strong.”  
During the last few words, I can barely keep my act together, especially since Esme has completely lost it during my little speech and is now laughing uncontrollably, her hand grabbing her stomach – and the other one still on my shoulder. As soon as my last words are spoken, I follow her lead, leaning into her as the laughter takes control of me, too. We sit like this for at least two minutes, almost finding back to our normal selves every so often but immediately losing it again once we look at each other. We probably look like idiots, sitting on the floor - or almost lying at this point – and laughing about our little sketch. But I enjoy the moment too much – enjoy Esme's hand on my shoulder and the small wrinkles around her eyes – to care what anyone walking by might think of us right now. Suddenly, we are interrupted by a boy coming up to us and announcing: “You two are way too happy for a Friday morning.”  
I stop laughing as soon as I recognise him. It's the guy from our first meeting, the one with the yellow jumper. Though today he is wearing a red shirt with black sleeves and black skinny jeans.   
Esme takes a little longer to regain control over herself and while she does there is an awkward silence in which the boy and I look at each other, eyes scanning each other in a suspicious way, as if we're both trying to find a flaw in the other person – or a reason why Esme might like them.  
He's honestly not bad looking. Not tall, but a nice height, and his chubbiness makes his face seem soft and kind.  
“Sorry,” Esme finally stutters, breaking our weird eye contact. “Ely, this is Liv. Liv – Ely.”  
“Hi.” He grins and I can tell that he is truly trying to be nice, so I give him a little nod and smile back, which seems enough acknowledgement to him because he shifts his attention to Esme and asks “Are you coming?” with a small gesture towards their classroom door, which I only now notice has been open the entire time.  
She smiles at him with bright eyes and says: “I'll be there in a sec. Save me a seat?”  
He smiles back and walks over to the room.  
“Is he your boyfriend?”  
Wow. Real smooth, Liv, well done. I could have at least waited until he was actually out of sight before blurting that out.  
But Emse – angel that she is – doesn't seem to mind. Instead, she looks over at Ely before she turns back to me and says: “No, he's a good friend.” The smile that accompanies that statement gives my heart a tight squeeze. I wonder if she smiles that way when she talks about me, too. Not that she ever talks about me.   
I try to play it cool but can't help adding: “He seems to really like you. You sure you're just friends?”  
Something changes in her expression as I say that, it's like she tastes something bitter but tries to keep a straight face.  
“No,” she says and immediately I regret asking. Of course they're not just friends. Of course she's not single.  
But then she continues: “We're friends. No 'just'.”  
Her words take some time to arrange themselves in my mind, to find meaning.  
“Oh. Okay.”  
Stupid response, I know. But I'm not sure what else to say.   
However, Esme does.  
“You know, I really don't like that saying. 'Just friends'. As if friendship is something sad or unimportant. As if friendship can't be exactly as amazing as romance – sometimes even better.”  
I ponder this for a while, thinking about my own ideas of friendship and romance, my own experiences.  
“I guess you've got a point. But it's not necessarily a comparison, you know. And if one person in a friendship does want romance, than I guess for that person the friendship is 'just' that. In that case, wanting more makes the other thing less.”  
I see her thinking. I see her taking in my words and finding her own in response. This, this right here, is one of my favourite things in the world. This state of collective thinking, of arranging and rearranging opinions, of learning where someone else is coming from. And Esme is wonderful at doing just that.  
“But why want a relationship instead of a friendship? I mean, most relationships, at least at our age, end anyway – often not so nicely and without any friendship left afterwards – while friends can stay in touch for years, sometimes even forever.”  
“Now you're judging quantity over quality. Just because something lasts longer, doesn't automatically mean it is better. Friendships can be shallow or sporadic, while relationships take close bonds, as well as trust and commitment. Not to forget that there's also such a thing as a friend-breakup.”  
“Friendships can also be really close – especially those that do last for a long time. To be real friends you have to trust your friend and commit to working on your friendship when it gets difficult at times.”  
“All of that applies to a romantic relationship as well.”  
She doesn't answer. Just looks at me with those shining blue eyes. And then she giggles.   
“Okay, fine, we're both right! Friendships and Relationships are equally awesome!”  
Something about that amuses her and, once again, I cannot help but smile back, even though I would have loved for our discussion to go on a little longer.   
But now she gets up and takes her backpack, so I guess I'll have to wait until next week to continue our conversation.   
She looks over her shoulder towards my classroom next to hers and when she sees that it is open as well, she holds out her hand to help me get up. Our fingers brush against each other and her hand is warmer than mine but also smaller, as I notice when I curl my freckled fingers around her dark skin.  
It's an image I want to remember but before I can, I am standing and our hands lose each other as Esme says her goodbye and turns to leave.   
I can't decide whether to look at her or at my hand to replay the moment, so I end up staring out of the window at the end of the hallway, the sound of students passing by numb in the sunlight that falls through the stained glass.  
Then I turn around and walk into my room.


	7. 07

“Is that Charles Xavier?”  
Esme jumps when I sit down next to her, her mind obviously lost within the lines on the paper in her lap.   
“It's a good drawing,” I add when she doesn't answer but instead quickly pushes the drawing pad into her backpack.   
“It's okay,” she finally says and even though I know that the smile that follows is forced, I still follow her lead as she swiftly moves on.  
“So, you're an Xmen fan?”  
“Well, I wouldn't say 'fan' since I've only seen the first few movies.”  
“Oh wow!” She moved her expression into one of exaggerated shock.   
“You're missing out on so much essential culture! Seriously!”  
I laugh at her expression of a super-fan and for a moment she joins in, the sound of her laughter always making me forget why we are laughing in the first place, but then she turns serious again and says: “For real, though – hen did you stop with the movies? I need to know how committed you are to the fandom.”  
“Oh gosh, so this is a potential deal-breaker with you, is it?”  
“Absolutely!”   
She does her best to keep a straight face but the little twitch in the left corner of her mouth gives her away.  
“Well, in that case,” I continue, all fake-serious for her sake, “I think I gave up somewhere along the third time travel.”  
“So not committed at all,” she jokes.  
“I guess not, sorry. It just didn't make any sense to me.”  
“Oh no, don't tell me you are one of those people?”  
“One of which people?”  
This time I'm actually a bit concerned that I said something wrong – she may be joking but somehow this still seems quite important to her.  
“One of those people who try to explain absolutely everything with reason.”  
I stare at her. Is she serious?  
“Esme, there are sci-fi movies!”  
“Exactly!”  
“What do you mean 'exactly'? Sci-fi is science-fiction. And science – per definition – means that reason is involved. So yes, of course I try to explain the time travel with reason – which is impossible. Which is why I stopped watching.”  
“aha! It's science-fiction. Fiction! As in not real! So if you take it too literal, you lose the fiction part, which explains everything that reason can't.”  
She's got a point. Still.  
“They could at least try to have some basic logic to it!”  
“And what is so unlogical that you cannot stand to continue this epic story?”  
“First of all, I'm pretty sure that 'unlogical' is not a real word.”  
Esme dismisses me with a shrug and a self-mocking grin.  
“And second of all, no story that has time travel in it can ever be epic. Or logical.”  
She raises an eyebrow and leans in close – too close – before stating matter-of-factly: “So you're a time travel discriminator.”  
That does it. The next second I am bent over from laughter, my hand clutching my stomach and my eyes lost in the dimple next to Esme's smile.  
“Yes,” I gasp as I try to catch my breath, “You got me. I'm a total time travel discriminator. I'm sorry, but you'll have to about this about me.”  
I can finally sit up straight again but Esme is still laughing at me, which leaves a few last flutters behind in my stomach.   
“Never!” She declares now. “I will teach you how wonderful and totally logical time travel can be and soon enough you will find yourself married to time travel, in a house somewhere in the past with three lovely Benjamin-Button kids.”  
I flinch at the idea but accept her challenge.   
“Fine, try your best then.”  
For a second I am tempted to wink. But, of course, I don't.  
“Well, first you have to tell me why you think time travel is unlogical,” she stresses the last word especially before continuing, “so I can prove you wrong.”  
“I don't even know where to begin.”  
We're both keeping the humorous tone but I can feel the conversation shifting into a more serious direction. This is one of those moments where a weird topic actually tells you a lot about a person's true feelings and thoughts – and though I'm looking forward to finding out more about Esme, I'm also a bit worried what she'll learn about me.  
What if I seem too negative? Or too stuck-up?  
But now it's too late, I already feel those blue eyes fixed on me, waiting for my response, waiting for a chance to shine with passion when she proves me wrong. Okay, here we go.  
“Well, it just doesn't make any sense. Like, what are the rules?”  
I can hear how insecure my voice sounds, my words shaking ever so slightly, but Esme is already completely invested in our little discussion and when she asks “What rules?” I suddenly feel her excitement jumping over onto me.  
“Exactly! There are none! Or, there are but they differ from story to story. Sometimes, you're not allowed to see your younger self or talk to them, sometimes you can't change anything – which, let's be honest, is impossible, even if it's just by asking someone for directions – and anyway, why would you travel back in time when you can't change anything? And then there's the question of which part of you even travels in the first place.”  
I'm all fired up now, my previous insecurity forgotten as I see Esme grinning up at me, her eyes focused on me, her mind following my words.  
“I mean, when you travel through time, does your body actually leave the present? Is it just gone for however long you're in the past? Because that could be really long, depending on what your 'mission' is. Or is it a case of time passing differently and when you get back from your travel you go to the exact moment that you left? Or does you body stay in the present and it's only your mind that travels into your younger self? But then you could only travel back until your birth. And what happens to your young brain during that time? Wouldn't you remember it if you had an older brain inside yourself for a while?”  
I notice Esme's grin growing bigger and for a second I consider stopping my rant before she can laugh at me, but then I look at her eyes and see that she is lost in my words as much as I am, that her grin is simple enjoyment and not mockery.  
“I mean, I could go on forever, but basically the reason that time travel makes no sense is that there are way too little details, not nearly enough information.”  
“Okay...” She obviously needs a moment to find her way back into reality.  
“Yeah, I see what you mean.”  
A smile spreads across my lips and, Esme being Esme, of course matches my happiness with a smile of her own.  
“But,” my smile falters a little, “you're still missing the whole fiction thing. The point of science-fiction is to create your own rues – in this case to create your own way of time travel as you write it. Every author writes it differently but within each story it has its own set of rules and its own limitations. So even if you might be right that time travel in general doesn't make much sense, it still does make a lot of sense in the context of the fictional world it is used within.”  
She ends her speech with a satisfied nod, proud of herself for defying my reason – and somehow, I'm proud of her, too. Even if it does mean she wins. I'm proud of the two of us for having conversations like this.   
So maybe time travel still doesn't make sense, no matter what Esme says.  
But us sitting here next to each other, discussion sci-logic – or the lack thereof – that makes a lot of sense to me.   
And so, instead of arguing my point any further, I simply smile at her and enjoy the way the sun shines through her light Hijab from the window behind her as my hazel eyes meet her blue ones.


	8. 08

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this Friday's a little different from what we've had before...because Liv's not at uni today
> 
> it's a week off (I think I originally planed this as winter holiday or something) and the girls don't get to see each other - but Liv gets to see something that Esme accidentally left behind last Friday Morning ;)

I start flipping through the notebook, hoping to find something that might help me contact Esme – and immediately stop.   
This isn't just a simple sketchbook. This is more a collection of art. I had no idea Esme is this talented!  
Sure, I saw that one drawing and she talks about it every now and then, but up until now I had figured that drawing was just something to fill her time, just a hobby.   
But this – this is really impressive!  
I take a closer look at the pages that are open in front of me. It's a pencil sketch of a woman I don't know, her long hair framing her soft face in gentle waves, covering her neck and shoulders as it fades into the shadowed paper. She is gorgeous.   
For a moment I wonder if she is real or simply a creation from Esme's imagination. Which starts a whole new train of thought that I should probably avoid. So, instead of thinking about Esme imagining gorgeous women, I turn the page to find a new drawing – and almost lose my hold on the book.   
There, on a page covered in strong colours against a light grey background, is an image of a girl with brown eyes looking somewhere into the distance beyond the pages, strands of ginger hair falling over her lashes, her fingers curled around a steaming cup which rests on the outline of her knees.   
This is me.   
Esme drew me.  
After the tumbling thoughts that had filled my mind just a second ago, this new drawing leaves my brain blank. I can do nothing but stare at my penciled self. And, after considering it for a while, my lips curl upwards while my forehead crinkles into a frown.   
Esme drew me.   
What does this mean?  
Does it mean anything at all?


	9. Character Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I won't be able to post next week (it's my final exam for the Bachelor) I wanted to share my original character art of Liv and Esme with you now.  
> I'm nowhere near as talented as Esme is but I thought it would fit in with the previous chapter.


	10. 09

The next time I see her is weird.  
I'm nervous, even though I've done this a million times by now. I have walked up the stairs before, have turned the corner to see Esme leaning against the wall before. This is routine.   
Except, it isn't anymore. Because she drew me.  
And not only did she draw me, she painted every detail of me onto those pages, details she can can only have seen if she paid attention.  
So, this time it's different so walk up to our usual wall.  
So different, in fact, that I'm not even holding a cup of coffee. I was just too nervous to deal with any extra energy this morning.  
And then I do turn the corner and see her. And she is holding coffee. Two cups of it.  
And all of a sudden, it's easy again. All of a sudden, she's Esme again. Esme, who hates history lectures and loves colours, not Esme who cared enough to draw me. She's Esme who is waiting at our wall with our coffee. I sigh before sitting down next to her.  
“How did you know?” I ask as I take the cup she is handing me, along with her ever-present smile and a twinkle in her blue eyes.  
She's wearing a dark red Hijab today, which is a colour I've never seen on her before, but of course it still suits her perfectly.  
She takes a sip of her coffee, eyeing me in a 'wouldn't-you-like-to-know' kind of way. And, yes, I really would like to know.  
“Just a feeling,” she grins and shrugs innocently.   
“Well, kudos to your feelings.”  
I lift my cup to toast her, but something about my words makes Esme twitch.   
Okay, maybe not quite back to normal yet.   
“Oh, before I forget,” I try to act cool, to bring it up totally casually, but Im afraid I'm not as good as an actress as I had hoped I'd be. “You left this behind before the break.”  
There it is again – that slight second in which she loses all control over her facial features.  
As soon as I hand the book over, she regains her composure and the weird twitch makes way for Esme-the-smiley-face.  
“Thanks.”  
She is quick to put it back into her backpack, not even paying attention whether anything else gets ruffled up in the process.  
“I was worried I'd lost it completely. I only noticed a few days later.”  
The shaking in her voice surprises me.   
I've seen the failing smile before but this is new.  
I almost ask if she's afraid of something.  
“I would have told you sooner but I don't have your number. Or your last name.”  
I conveniently forget to mention that I did just about everything I could think of to find out either of those.   
“Oh, yeah, that's right! We should really fix that.”  
She's obviously grateful for the distraction, as well as the chance to hide her face for a bit as she looks for her phone in the depths of her backpack.   
I'm much faster at finding mine, seeing as it's always right there in my jeans pocket, so when she finally finds hers I'm already handing her mine, the contact field open on the screen.  
A few seconds later we switch again and there it is: Esme Malak's phone number. In my phone.  
Something about this surreal situation brings out the brave side in me and before I know it I hear myself saying: “Well, now we're officially a part of each other's life – how about we hang out outside of Friday-mornings-by-the-wall sometime?”  
I want to take it back, want to hit my brain for acting before I could stop it.   
But then Esme smiles her biggest smile and says: “Sure I'd like that.”  
And before I can embarrass myself any further with whatever reaction my brain has in store for that answer, she waves at someone behind me and continues: “There's Ely. Text me, okay?”  
And as she stands to join her friend on his way to their class, she waves goodbye with her phone still in her hand, my contact info shining on the bright screen between her dark fingers.


	11. 10

I don't wait the usual three days to text Esme. I don't even try to restrain myself. Instead, I pull up her number as soon as I get home, ready to blow all caution and dignity into the wind. Except, I don't. Because I don't no what to type. What does she expect? Does she even expect anything? I mean, sure, she did give me her number – but she also said it was so that I could contact her during the break if I have to. Or at least that was the context. So, maybe she doesn't actually want me to text her now? Though she also said to do so. And besides, she's Esme. She probably doesn't mind, right? Still...what to say?  
She already has my number as well so the classic 'Hey, this is Liv' doesn't work. Do I just ask her to hang out? We did decide we'd become outside-of-uni friends after all. All right, I can do this.   
My fingertips start hitting the screen, though my brain hasn't quite formulated a plan yet. Still, the result isn't too bad: “Hey Esme :) You still up for hanging out?”  
A little off, but it'll do for now.   
I press send and immediately put the phone away, forcing myself not to stare at it while waiting for an answer for however long that will take.   
However, it only takes a few minutes for my strength to break and only seconds for my logical side to give in to my oh-so stupid hand which is already reaching for the phone.   
The moment I pick it up, though, a short sound escapes the speaker to show that a text just arrived. I quickly unlock the phone and pull up the chat even quicker.   
There is my message to Esme – and underneath it a new one.   
She replied.  
I am already starting to freak out – both of excitement and nervousness – when I tell myself that I should probably read the text before overreacting.   
“Hey Liv! Sure am – any plans?”  
Okay, now I can freak out.  
She actually said yes. Not that I expected her to say no, she is a little sunshine after all. And not that this is a date or anything like that, either. It's just hanging out.   
Still. It's hanging out outside of uni with a beautiful girl who seems to like me at least a little bit, too.   
My eyes focus on the screen again and I reread her text.  
“Any plans?”  
She wants me to decide what to do.  
What do we do?  
Coffee? Works, but it's kind of boring.   
Cinema? Too much like a date. Not enough time to actually talk.   
I think about it for another two minutes before the imaginary light bulb above my head appears.   
“There's a new exhibition at the museum. You're into art, right?”  
I saw the poster on my way home last week – apparently it's about the oceans, probably lots of pictures of fish, which sounds kinda cute. A smile spreads across my lips as I see the three dots appear on my creen.   
“I am! Sounds great :)”  
“Great! When?”  
Three dots.  
Blank.  
Three dots.  
Blank.  
Then finally: “How about Tuesday?”  
I glanze at the calender on my table, even though I know my shedule by heart.  
“Got a seminar at 10 but after that I'm free.”  
“Wonderful! Meet me at uni at 12?”  
I reply with a thumbs up before scrolling through our short conversation again, a stupid grin on my lips now.  
Then I grab a pen, pull the calender closer and flip the pages until Tuesday appears.  
Carefully, and probably with too much flourish, I write down her name.  
Tuesday, 12 o'clock is now reserved for Esme.


	12. 11

Tuesday, 11:30.

My fingers are nervously twisting the hem of my grey shirt, my eyes darting around along the sidewalk in front of the museum, hoping that Esme might be here as early as I am. I stand close to the front door and watch couples, families and elderly men enter the enormous building through the comically small glass doors. Another quick internet search on the exhibition told me that, though Esme is interested in art, this will probably not be the most exciting date ever – not date! My brain immediately corrects me. Just hanging out. No one said anything about a date.  
Right. Still. I probably should have picked something else.  
Not only do I have no idea whether this is actually the kind of art that Esme likes, I also didn't consider that this huge museum might have several exhibitions at once. Meaning that the one we're going to see is only a small part of the big picture (pun intended). Apparently, people who properly walk along the marine paintings will exit the building after about 40 minutes. And I am guessing that that means about half an hour for us. Which I not enough for a proper hangout. Which in turn means we'll have to do something else afterwards. Something else that was not part of our original plan. And though I did make a list of the cafés in the area, I don't know what Esme will think of this – if she actually wants to drink and talk or if she was only interested in hanging out because of the museum.   
Of course, I logically know that these thoughts are stupid. She said yes before I mentioned the museum and we sit, drink coffee and talk every Friday morning.   
Still, my fingers wrap tighter around my shirt with every second that passes and by the time Esme turns the corner across the street, I have probably stretched the fabric beyond repair.  
She crosses the street and spots me when she reaches the pavement, waving happily as she makes her way toward me.  
“Hey Liv!”  
She smiles and before I can stress out any further, her arms wrap around me and I suddenly find myself in our first ever hug – a sensation that I definitely was not prepared for.   
It takes me about three seconds too long to respond but when I finally catch up, I let my hands linger on the small of her back and for a tiny second I even allow myself to rest my head on top of hers, a grin spreading across my lips when I realise that she's the perfect height for that.  
When we let go I feel myself relax.   
Apparently, that's just the effect her smile has on me.  
“So,” I say, taking in her glowing eyes, light ipstick and colourful clothes in contrast to my grey-in-grey combi, “Shall we go in?”  
I gesture towards the door, letting her walk in before me like a true gentlewoman.

So, turns out we are more than proper. The announced 40 minutes have already passed and from what I can gather we are just about half-way through. Not only are the pictures actually pretty cool, we also always find a way of going from jellyfish to ghost to the afterlife – so we end of standing in front of each painting for forever, discussing the most absurd topics that have barely anything to do with the image in front of us.  
It always starts the same way: Esme tells me about the art and I tell her about the things in it. At first, I'm hesitant to share my ideas about the image's life, but her geniun interest urges me to keep going, so I do. And slowly, I start to really enjoy our little game of fact and fiction, that somehow morphes into complete non-sense each time.  
It already happened several times that the people around us shot us annoyed looks, obviously enraged by those two weirdos who dare to laugh out loud in a museum. The third time Esme notices that, she rolls her eyes at me before standing up straight, crossing her arms behind her back and putting on a very serious face. She turns to me, then back to the painting, then back to me and then says in her best posh voice: “The contrast of reality and imagination portrayed in the turquise tones of this marine image is astonishing, don't you agree?”  
I bite my lip to keep from laughing, before copying her posture.   
“Absolutely astonishing!” I agree, walking over to the next painting, where I comment on the depth of the two dimensional canvas. We continue that game for a while until we stand in front of this one: a pale blue background behind two penguins, one leaning onto the other with his eyes closed.   
“They're my favourite animals.”  
At first I think she's still playing pretend and already open my mouth to ask how that qualifies as a cultural comment – but then I notice her soft voice, the way she seem lost in the painting, her eyes unfocused and her head slightly tilted to the left to mimic the sleeping penguin.   
I probably look similarly in trance as I watch her watch the image.  
At least a minute passes in complete silence before I think to say something.  
“Because they pair for life?”  
It's something everyone has heard about at some point and since it's quite an adorable penguin fact, it's my first guess.  
Her eyes take a while to re-focus but she keeps her gaze locked onto the canvas in front of her and I decide to join her in looking at the painting – it's probably a bit more appropriate than to keep staring at her.  
“I guess that too,” she answers. I can't help bur steal another glance at her. She's always been beautiful but right now she's practically glowing. I take my eyes off her quickly, afraid that I might not be able to do so any more if I look at her for just one more second.  
“But it's also their general loveliness.”   
I can hear the grin in her voice.  
“They just seem to care so much about each other. You know, they even adopt baby penguins when their parents die. It's their natural reaction to take them in. And they're basically always cuddling.”  
Now she turns to me, so I feel safe to do the same.  
“That's probably got more to do with the cold than the loveliness – but still.”  
She grins again and a slight blush spreads over her dark cheeks, leaving me completely speechless as I marvel at the gorgeous girl in front of me who picks her favourite animal based on loveliness – and says words like 'loveliness'.  
It takes me a while to notice that we're just looking at each other by this point, neither of us saying anything, both of us blushing but not turning away.  
I feel the red creeping from my cheeks along the rest of my face as I think about what she might see in me.   
I know I'm not ugly – but I'm also not nearly as pretty as pretty as Esme.  
And while her eyes are of that stunning sky blue, mine are an ever-changing green-brown-grey that definitely won't enchant anyone any time soon. Still, she keeps looking. She keeps our gazes locked.   
And then she turns away.  
Of course I knew that we'd have to move on at some point – this is a public museum after all, we are expected to walk from painting to painting and to eventually leave the building. But the sudden lack of her eyes on mine is somehow still unexpected.   
We don't continue our game with the next paintings. We simply look at each of them in relative silent, only giving genuine comments every now and then before making our way to the next one. Something has changed in the air between us. It feels like one of those summer days when the sun burns so so strongly that you can feel its warmth spread around yourself in the atmosphere, can feel it sticking to your skin and burn in your lungs.   
There's heaviness between us now.   
A heaviness that keeps us from joking and laughing – even from properly looking at each other.   
When we walk through the museum's exit ten minutes later, I'm sure I blew it. There's no way Esme wants to ever hang out again after this. I prepare myself for some emergency family thing I have to go to or a friend I promised to meet; anything to escape the awkwardness that's about to happen here, when Esme says: “Wanna grab a coffee?”  
I look at her, the surprise clearly written all over my face. But her lips are curved in a genuine smile so I agree. Besides, I can't say no to coffee.  
We find a café a few streets down and when we sit down at a table by the window with our drinks – caramel machiato for her, cappucino for me – Esme immediately starts gushing about the artists whose work we just saw. Half of the stuff she says I barely understand, like when she admires the energetic brushwork on a painting of a river flowing through mountains, but I just lean back and enjoy the mixture of caffeine, her voice and the sun coming in through the glass next to me.   
Then she sighs and says: “I wish I'd be that good – to have my work in an actual museum.”  
“You are!” It slips out before I can shut my mouth and with those two little words comes so much meaning. Like how I saw her art. How I stared at it for hours on end, turning the pages in her sketchbook carefully, in awe at the images she had brought to life and the coincidence that let to me seeing them. How I had admired every single page she had drawn on.  
But one in particular.  
While all those thoughts escaped my mind, surprise comes to Esme's face. And then a look of understanding as she realises what I had just said.   
I start to apologise but she grins, shaking her head and saying: “No, it's okay...I already figured you saw the sketches.”  
I try my best to apologise with the smile I give her now, but she seems lost in her own thoughts for a while, slowly sipping her macchiato while watching the people pass by our window. Then she looks at me.  
“So, you liked them?”  
The insecurity in her voice almost breaks my heart. How is it possible that she doesn't know how talented she is?  
“Absolutely,” I say, putting all my admiration for her work into that single word. And apparently it works because her nervous expression slowly changes into a happy one.   
“You're really good!” I watch her smile grow wider.   
“Thank you,” she whispers, her lips hidden behind her mug as she takes another sip. And then I say something I never thought I'd say.  
“Can I ask you something?”  
“Sure” She puts down her cup, paying full attention to me and I almost don't ask the question, scared to break this comfortable moment. But I want to know.  
“Why did you draw me?”  
Her expression slips, a shadow across her eyes for only a second before she gains control again and forces back that smile I already know to be fake.  
“You're beautiful to draw.”  
She keeps her eyes on me to watch my reaction, trying her best to look calm as I take in her words. But all the reaction I can give is “Oh” and a bright red blush all over my grin-lifted cheeks.   
Which seems to be enough for her.


	13. 12

Next Friday  
“Good morning! I've got something for you.”  
I look up with a smile already on my face, expecting to see Esme handing me a coffee – which would be my third one this morning – but stop moving when I find her with a hand full of flowers. Flowers.  
She actually brought me flowers.  
To uni.  
My smile grows into a grin as Esme sits down next to me at our wall. Our wall.   
“Well?” She pushes a hand towards me, the scent of the bouquet now reaching my nose.   
It smells like summer and she looks so proud of herself – and so adorable – that I quickly grab the flowers, letting my fingers linger around hers a little longer than necessary before bringing the bouquet up to my face to properly smell it.   
“Thank you,” I whisper, truly touched despite the humour of the situation. She smiles back at me as she taks off her backpack now that both her hands are free. And then we sit there, leaning against our wall, not sure of what to say. Not sure of what we are.   
Because even though the rest of our museum day was wonderful and we talked about anything and everything at the café, it wasn't actually a date. And sure, she said I was beautiful – but that could have been a platonic compliment. Except, it didn't feel like it. And the many long gazes into each others eyes in complete silence before we started a new conversation also didn't feel all that platonic. And now she brought me flowers. So the question stands: What are we?  
I am still lost in thought, wondering how to address this, when Esme turns to me and says: “So, Tuesday was fun.”  
There's that sparkle again, the one that makes her eyes an impossible blue and twists my stomach around.   
“It was.” I smile, though I can feel how the corners of my mouth won't lift properly. The question lingers in my short response.   
“So what's next?”   
Her forwardness takes me aback – did she really just ask about our future? - and she must notice it because she immediately adds: “I mean, we'll hang out again, right?”  
I can barely keep a disappointed sigh from escaping my lungs.  
“Hang out,” I repeat and try not to seem quite as pathetically crushed, “Sure, we'll hang out again.”  
Her eyes search mine, diving into my words and for a moment I think she's going to say something.  
But then she takes my hand.  
Just like that.   
And just like that, my brain stops working.  
All I feel is our intertwined fingers, all I see is her dark skin against my light freckles. And I see her smile. I see the insecurity hiding behind her eyes until I close my fingers around hers as well, which is when her entire face breaks out into the most contagious smile I have ever seen. So I smile back.   
And we sit there, leaning against our wall, holding hands and smiling like idiots.   
“We'll definitely hand out again.”  
I can't keep the happiness out of my voice but to be honest, I don't really try to in the first place.  
Esme giggles, which makes my heart jump and my fingers twitch as she leans forward and presses our hands closer together.  
“Good.”  
And then her smiling lips meet mine.


	14. 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the final Friday!!  
> Thank you for your lovely comments and feedback, I hope you enjoyed this story <3
> 
> aaaalsooo, I'm gonna try to make this into an actual physical book that you can buy (hopefully soon) so stay tuned for that

We're cuddled up on the sofa when she brings it up again – the future.  
That scary, unpredictable thing.  
“Have you thought more about what you'll do once you've got your degree?”  
At first I try to avoid the topic by simply ignoring her question. By pretending I'm so focused on what's going on on the screen in front of us that I didn't even hear her, even though I'm not even sure what show it is we are watching.  
Of course, she won't let me get away with that.  
“You know, I really did mean it when I told you you could become an author.”  
I sigh and finally turn to face her, my arm now twisted in an uncomfortable angle since I refuse to change its position around her waist and my neck craned weirdly as I look down at the girl still leaning against my shoulder. My girlfriend. A smile crosses my lips as the sound of that wonderful word echoes inside of my mind.   
But then I remember what said girlfriend is talking about.  
“Yeah, right.”  
Now it's on her to sit up so as to look at me more directly.  
“Liv, I mean it. You're great at telling stories. You have a colourful imagination. Have you at least thought about it?”  
Again, I ignore her question – because, yes, I have in fact thought about it and to be perfectly honest I didn't hate the idea – and instead go directly into defence.   
“And what stories would I tell? The one about my neighbour who was maybe a bit lonely that one night or maybe just forgot to switch off the light in the kitchen? Or one of those professional marine art interpretations that consist of about three sentences? Yeah, sounds like a real bestseller.”  
Esme thinks about it for a few seconds before her ever-present smile grows wider and she leans in closer again.  
“How about the story of us?”


End file.
